


Tea Gone Cold

by TheBritishBourbon



Series: November in Baker Street [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Caring John, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Injured Sherlock, Worried John, mothering mrs hudson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-16
Updated: 2015-03-16
Packaged: 2018-03-18 04:36:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3556259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBritishBourbon/pseuds/TheBritishBourbon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As Sherlock recovers from his shooting, John thinks about the mess his life is in, and Mrs Hudson and Sherlock give him some friendly advice. Contains Cluedo and tea! Written as a prequel to November in Baker Street, but it is not necessary to read that first.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tea Gone Cold

** Tea Gone Cold **

It had just turned November, and with this turning had come a brisk wind and a sudden, sharp drop in the temperature. John, feeling all the more depressed by this sudden change in the weather had decided to pull a ‘sickie’, giving himself a free day to lounge about with Sherlock. Normally, John would never have done something so scandalous, but circumstances at that present time were not _normal_.

John had not resided in Baker Street since a little after Sherlock’s ‘death’, but he was once again here now, thinking over his life and what it had become. Plus, now that he was out of hospital, Sherlock needed someone around to be there for him. It had been little over a week since Sherlock’s discharge, his _proper_ discharge, not his own recklessly stupid discharge which had nearly cost him his life. Again. The fact that major internal bleeding had almost killed him, and that John hadn’t even noticed made John angry. Angry at himself, angry at Sherlock, hell, even angry at the world. But most of all he was angry at Mary.

Part of him, the rational part that loved her with all his heart, told him she couldn’t help who she was, that she had already put it behind her, and he shouldn’t have expected her to tell him who she had been in a previous life. But the angry part of him told him she should have; he had told her all about his life as a soldier, and with Sherlock, he had opened up to her and yet her words had been lies. Bloody lies. Her defence was not helped by the fact that she had shot his best friend, had turned back to her old ways, and she hadn’t even had the conscience to admit it. Mary had told Sherlock, at the Empty House, that she hadn’t confessed to John because it would break him. Well, she was right there.

                                                                               ***

John had to admit that he had forgotten how it could be almost…pleasant just to stay in at Baker Street with a nice cup of tea, slouched in his armchair with Sherlock’s sometimes slightly irritating company. It was still early, and they had both decided out of boredom to dabble in an old game of theirs: _Cluedo_. To make it more interesting, they had invited Mrs Hudson along, who had been more than happy to join them, bringing with her a delicious fruit cake.

“No, no, no!” Sherlock was half-shouting at that moment, slouched out on the sofa in his pyjamas. “John, how could you possibly believe the weapon was the _wrench_?”

John just shrugged at him, “Well, it’s not crossed off on my sheet so it is a potential murder weapon. Do you have that card?”

Sherlock sighed, not even looking at the cards splayed out on his stomach before he answered. “No.”

“Right.” John said, passing the dice over to Sherlock, who unceremoniously threw them at the coffee table, knocking the little figurines of _Colonel Mustard_ and _Mrs White_ off the board. Mrs Hudson tutted and replaced them while John moved Sherlock’s figurine of _Professor Plum_ five spaces, as the dice had instructed.

“Sherlock, take a guess.” He ordered.

Sherlock’s eyes twitched to the board and then up to the ceiling. “None of the players can possibly be the murderer. This game is stupid.”

John shared a look with Mrs Hudson. “You say that every time, Sherlock, now just guess anything.”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. “Why?”                          

“Because we are playing a game together, dear, and John is trying his best to keep you occupied, so make a guess.” Mrs Hudson said firmly. Sherlock looked at her for a long while, an unidentifiable expression on his face. Finally he said, “Reverend Green, in the dining room with the dagger.”

Both Mrs Hudson and John checked their cards; neither of them possessing any of the possibilities Sherlock had said. He held his hand out for Sherlock’s cards, and the detective chucked them in his direction. No, Sherlock had none of those as well. John sighed in annoyance, taking the mystery cards from the middle of the board, and threw them face down on the table. They read: Reverend Green, the dining room, and the dagger.

“Oh, well done Sherlock! See? There was a possible murderer after all.” Mrs Hudson said pointedly.

“No there wasn’t, I just guessed it.” Sherlock muttered, with his eyes still on the ceiling.

“Oh, for God’s…” John muttered. “Yes, well, now that’s over….” He started packing up the game none too gently. “And you never guess, apparently!”

“That’s how imbecilic this game is, reducing _me_ to _guessing._ And it was your idea to play it.” Sherlock murmured, handing his cards to John. John glared back.

“Yes, and you agreed.”

“Only because there’s nothing else to do.”

“You could sleep?” John suggested, placing the now packed Cluedo box on one of the bookshelves.

“Ugh, boring.” Sherlock sunk back onto the cushions of the sofa.

“You need it, though.” John replied sincerely. It was true, Sherlock still looked far too pale and more dishevelled than usual in his loose pyjamas rather than fitted suits. If truth be told John had felt it necessary to take a day off work to keep an eye on Sherlock; the man was not well enough to move very far or do much, and as much as he appreciated and acknowledged how much Mrs Hudson was helping, it was easier if John were there too.

Mrs Hudson tutted, looking at Sherlock concernedly. “John’s right, Sherlock. Why don’t you sleep for a bit? And then we can have lunch.”

Sherlock replied whilst giving a large yawn, “That sounds preposterously……tedious….”

John raised an eyebrow, picking up the fruit cake crumb spattered plates from the desk. “Oh really? Well if you can explain to me why it so ‘preposterously tedious’ I’ll agree with you.”

“Because I don’t need….” Sherlock yawned once again, and sunk further into the cushions. “…to sleep, especially when it’s….the morning.”

“Yeah, well, normally you aren’t recovering from a life threatening injury.” John retorted as he headed for the kitchen with the plates. Mrs Hudson remained where she sat in Sherlock’s usual chair. “It’s important to sleep in order to give yourself time to heal proper- what?” Mrs Hudson was smiling at him amused, and he frowned back. She pointed to the sofa and he peered around the doorway to see Sherlock, face relaxed and sleeping peacefully.

John sighed, running a hand over his eyes. Mrs Hudson looked up at him in sympathy. “John?” She suggested. “Why don’t I make you a nice cuppa?” She raised herself from her seat, heading to the kitchen. Whilst she busied herself with the kettle John grabbed the blanket hung over the back of the sofa and laid it over Sherlock, who did not stir.

Sitting himself down in his armchair John observed his friend. It scared him to think that Sherlock might not have been there that day; that he might have died on the surgeon’s table. He had, of course, technically, but to John’s relief the idiot had managed to pull himself back into the land of the living. Thank God that he had.

“Here you are, love.” He was pulled out of his thoughts by the arrival of his cup of tea be shoved into his hands by Mrs Hudson.

“Thank, Mrs H.” He said, sipping lightly on his tea whilst she sat back down in Sherlock’s armchair, tea cup in hand and staring at the sleeping detective.

“Look at him, you wouldn’t think that such a…pest like he is would ever look so…..sweet.” she remarked.

John attempted not to choke on tea as he giggled at her words. “ _Sweet_ is not a word I would use to describe him.”

Mrs Hudson smiled cheekily at him, “Oh, you know what I mean.” She regarded Sherlock for a moment more, before placing her teacup down and turning on John. He frowned at her, already sensing where this was going, and he too put down his teacup, bracing himself.

“John…” Mrs Hudson started slow, not meeting his eye. “Why don’t you phone Mary?”

John shook his head, “No.” he said straight away.

“She’s your wife.”

John scoffed darkly, “I wouldn’t call her that. I don’t….I don’t know what to call her.”

Mrs Hudson just sighed. “Maybe if you just let her…explain?”

John scoffed once again, “Oh, she already let Sherlock do that. Gave me this as well...” From his pocket he pulled the USB stick named A.G.R.A.  Since that night he had kept it on him at all times, and yet he hadn’t read it. Not yet. “It has everything about her…previous life on it.”

“…Have you read it?”

“No.” he put it back in his pocket.

“Are you going to read it?”

“No. Yes. No….I don’t know!” They had been talking in hushed whispers until then, but John’s voice had risen in frustration. Sherlock, from his place on the couch, moved ever so slightly and muttered something unintelligible. Luckily he did not wake. Mrs Hudson and John continued their tense discussion in whispers. “I thought that Mary was…I thought that she was a new start, but it turns out….that…..god, my life is a mess!”

Mrs Hudson stared at him in sympathy once again. John ran a hand through his hair, taking a deep breath. “I’m sorry.” He muttered.

Mrs Hudson sighed, “Oh, dear…I know I’m not exactly a good example of a happy marriage, but….I’m sure you can make it work.”

John huffed a little in disbelief, “Really? You think I can?”

“John,” She leaned forwards and grabbed one of his hands, “You found it in your heart to forgive Sherlock after all he did to you. Of course I’m sure you can sort things out.”

John stared at his best friend, still sleeping, for awhile as he took in Mrs Hudson’s words. There was truth in them, but he couldn’t forgive Mary so quickly, not right now. Still, he’d give Mrs. Hudson’s words some thought.

“Thanks, Mrs H.” He smiled at her with gratitude, and she squeezed his hand before letting go.

“How about I make you boys some lovely soup for lunch? I’ll pop out and see if I can get some ingredients.”

John smiled at her once again as she rose from her seat. Thank God for Mrs Hudson. “That would great, Mrs Hudson. Thank you.”

She patted his shoulder. “Drink your tea, dear.”

                                                                               ***

When Sherlock woke up an hour later, John was still sat in his chair with tea gone cold in his hand. Mrs Hudson was nowhere to be seen. The man was staring straight ahead, eyes unfocused and brow furrowed. He was obviously deep in thought.

Sherlock decided to leave him for a bit, and sank back onto the cushions. It was not long, however, before the ever present pain in his chest to become somewhat irritating and…overwhelming. Probably time for the painkillers he had been prescribed, then. They were just there on the coffee table, but the extra effort of reaching out with his arm was causing a lot of discomfort. When Sherlock attempted to stick his arm out as far as possible and lean over to the coffee table, a lightening bolt of pain shot through his chest. It had been too long since his last dose, and the pain was attacking with full force. He couldn’t suppress a small cry of pain, much to his embarrassment.

John jumped to alertness instantly, turning to Sherlock and simultaneously spilling tea on his trousers. Sherlock lay back on the sofa again, breathing heavily, while John muttered curses as he discarded his tea and rose from his armchair.

“Sherlock,” He said sternly, “You should have said something.” He selected the correct amount of pills; Sherlock would _not_ exceed the limit, and passed them to Sherlock.

“You looked deep in thought; I didn’t want to ruin such a singular occurrence.” Sherlock replied after the swallowing the pills dry. John sighed and rolled his eyes, perching himself on the edge of the coffee table. He observed his friend’s pale face for a few moments. Sherlock glanced up at him for a second and frowned.

“What?” he asked.

John took a deep breath and looked sincerely at his best friend. “I’m sorry.”

Sherlock waved him off, “It’s fine, I would have gotten the pills eventually.”

John shook his head, “No, I mean for not….I’m sorry that I didn’t notice how….bad you were when you were outing Mary. I should have done, but I didn’t and I feel so……” Sherlock just stared at him, a small frown painted on his brow, oblivious to what John was inferring. “I feel so guilty! I’m supposed to be your best friend and I didn’t even realise…!”

“John…” Sherlock looked at John perplexed. The man himself sat where he was on the coffee table, breathing deeply and not making eye contact with Sherlock. “Oh, you feel responsible for all of this!” Sherlock said after a while, reading his friend’s emotions from his tenseness. So that’s what John had been thinking about whilst he slept. Sherlock’s brain was already getting hazy from the drugs, but he found it easy to fight against the effects for the moment. He had to have this conversation with John.

“John,” He said much more softly, making his best friend look up, “if anyone is responsible, then it is I. Mary threatened to shoot me, but I didn’t believe that she would. I didn’t expect…”

John snorted, “ _You_ didn’t expect?!”

Sherlock giggled, the drugs making it come out higher than usual. John stared at him amused, a funny look in his eyes. Sherlock really couldn’t be bothered to work out what John was feeling this time.

“I’m sorry.” John said with finality. “I should have looked out for you more, but I didn’t.”

There was a moment of silence, in which John wished he could have been there to protect Sherlock in Magnussen’s office, and later, back at Baker Street, whilst Sherlock tried to think what _people_ would say to console other people. Finally he came up with something. Now, surely _this_ would work.

“John, the reason I didn’t die is because of you.”

John looked up, confused. “What?”

“When I flat lined, my mind was still going, and it occurred to me, in the deepest depths of my mind palace, that I would be leaving you in considerable danger. I couldn’t do that to you.”

John stared at him for a moment, looking somewhat moved by Sherlock’s words. “I….Thank you.” He finally got out. Then he laughed breathlessly and joked, “I’m starting to wonder if it’s the drugs, or whether you really did just….admit that you cared.”

Sherlock raised a languid eyebrow. “It’s the drugs, probably.” He said, closing his eyes. John chuckled, nodding.

It took a while for John to assemble his thoughts, how he felt almost…moved about what Sherlock had said. He had survived because of _him_. He was so glad Sherlock was still there, had pulled through twice. He was still angry with him for being shot, almost leaving him _again_ , but it wasn't Sherlock’s fault. Not really. And in order to expose Mary, Sherlock had put his life on the line once again. That had been bothering him…

“Sherlock, why didn’t you just tell me in the hospital about Mary? I could’ve sorted things out without your dramatic, and quite frankly stupid, escape from your room.”

Sherlock cracked open his eyes and stared at John with that expression he had reserved for when the doctor was being extra idiotic. “No, you couldn’t have, John. And because we had to sort out your problem properly. And anyway, you love her. And you _can_ trust her. It was important you find out in a suitable manner, I couldn’t just spring it upon you. I needed to make you suspicious before hand.”

John couldn’t fault his friend’s logic. The information that his wife had shot his best friend and was an ex-assassin was not one to be just brought out of the blue. Sherlock’s idea had been clever, if stupid (the ‘proper manner’ was him almost dying again, was it?) But love Mary? Did John love Mary? Of course he did. He hated her at the moment, but that didn’t mean he loved _his_ Mary any less.  The Mary who didn’t shoot his best friend, the Mary who had given him a breath of new life. There were difficulties, of course there were, trusting her being one of them, but Sherlock’s faith in John meant a lot, and it made him feel just that little bit more positive. Along with Mrs Hudson’s earlier words, he felt a lot lighter. Still, there was a long way to go.

“My god, you clever bastard...” he finally muttered, and Sherlock huffed weakly in amusement. John stared at the dozing figure before him, the Sherlock that had considered John’s _feelings_. God, what had happened to the colder, meaner man John had first met?

“Thank you, Sherlock. Really.”

Sherlock once again opened his eyes, having drifted shut again, at the sincerity of John’s voice. “You’re welcome…” He muttered.

John rose from the coffee table, and with one last small and quick pat on Sherlock’s shoulder, left his friend to sleep. Mrs Hudson was moving about downstairs, and John went to see if he could help with lunch. He needed to stop his brain from thinking for a moment, take his mind off things, off Mary, while he processed the kindness Sherlock had shown. God, his life was really upside down now.

                                                                                                                                                         ***

As soon as he heard the sound of John’s footsteps on the stairs in the hallway Sherlock opened his eyes and peered around, pulling himself out of his drug induced haze and searching for his mobile phone. He had had an idea, whilst John had been thanking him profusely for his kind words, and he wanted to arrange this now, before anything changed his mind. It had been very easy to convince John he was now sleeping, giving him ample time to have what was _bound_ to be a long phone call.

Spotting his phone on the coffee table he once again reached out, successfully grabbing it with only a twinge of pain. The painkillers were doing their work then. They must be; he did feel incredibly drowsy.

It occurred to Sherlock, whilst he was browsing through his contacts, that John didn’t know how much he meant to him. He was going to help Mary because she made John happy, and if it took time for John to realise that then so be it. He hated seeing John looking so….confused and agitated, but he had an idea how to make this situation better, once John had given it a lot of thought. An idea that included Mary, Christmas, and his parents. This would fit in very well with his other plan as well…things were certainly coming together nicely.

“Hello, Mother.” He began, as soon as his mother had eventually picked up her phone. His parents weren’t very good with the technology; it was positively painful watching his father browse _Google_. “What? Yes, I’m okay…yes, of course I’m taking my medication; do you know how painful being shot in the chest is? Yes, alright, sorry……listen, I was wondering if I could invite John along to Christmas dinner….with his wife, yes….no, they’re not vegetarian….yes, Mycroft WILL be coming……what? No! Mother, John and Mary do not want to see you and Dad line dancing…”

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> the sequel that is a prequel to 'November in Baker Street', thank you very much for reading!


End file.
